merveloyd

[merveloyd]

Imagine in a world where humans have developed the technology to completely change aspects of our body at will how differently we'd think about ourselves. Like, how diffrent would society be if we just had character customization.

How certain jobs could exploit that. Like if you were poor enough to have to work the type of job that has a uniform, your hair, eye and skin color might have to also be corporate freindly. How being free to look like yourself might become a class privilege.

Or how people with the freedom to look how they want would take it. How people's appearances would completely be based on their internal desires.

There might be an old woman who decides to look exactly how she did when she was young, the spitting image of a twenty something from generations ago. Her wife however decided to age normally, so now most people think they have a massive age gap even though they were born the same year.

There's a guy who chose to look like a cute girl for the same reason he plays female characters in video games. He still uses male pronouns though, and despite being female in every other way he kept his old voice because that feels like part of his identity.

There's someone who pushed the technology to its limits, making themself look like something entirely alien to what we think of as human. Something with pure white skin, and black eyes, and fangs, and spikes all over their body, but they're still just a normal person, the same way someone convered in tattoos is just a normal person.

There's someone who decided to get rid of any secondary sexual characteristics (basically reversing puberty while staying an adult) because she wants to take a break from sex. But after awhile that just becomes part of who she is, and without her old hormones she doesn't really find sex appealing.

There's someone who changes his eye color every week for the same reason someone else might dye their hair new colors constantly. And he's never wanted to change in any other way despite not being conventionally attractive.

That's just how people are I think.

[merveloyd]

So Dream BBQ has been deep in mind lately and I just noticed something about the route were you meet The Genie. One of the aspirations ENA can ask for is ‘the punishment of the moon’.

And who’s the only explicitly moon related thing in the ENA series?

Moony.

We don’t really know much about Moony at all, but this seems to be the only reference to her so far in the game. Since this is a (possibly) different version of ENA then it probably is also a different version of Moony.

Also this ENA seems to hate her, is it related to whatever happened with the bullets? Whatever made everyone hate ENA? What did Moony do??

[merveloyd]

It’s actually a common misconception that humans look like that, they become good-like due to the different pressure in outer space, they are actually bipedal when in their natural environment

[merveloyd]

I wanted to do 4 more today but only got 1 done TT_TT

[merveloyd]

[merveloyd]

I LOVE MY FRIENDS SO MUCH I'M JUST STUPID AND FORGET THAT FEELINGS NEED TO BE EXPRESSED IN ORDER FOR THEM TO BE FELT

[merveloyd]

Aww fuck, uhh, turns all a’s into o’s, viceverso, ond gives yau o manth lang ollergy tawords seofaad. Hald an, need ta get the ontidate

as a new moot you must be made aware

the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse the curse

I see... And what, pray tell, does this curse entail?

[merveloyd]

[merveloyd]

[merveloyd]

Click For Better Image Quality "The Scary Clown is particularly drawn to the Trap Cane's intricate, maze-like tunnels, which serve as perfect nesting grounds. These winding, disorienting passages are ideal for trapping unsuspecting forest critters, providing an easy meal for this unique carnivorous clown species. However, the dangers of this colorful labyrinth extend beyond wildlife. Several missing children cases from the late 1980s to the early 2000s have been linked to local occurrences of this anomalous plant, highlighting its threat to humans as well."

[merveloyd]

Oh wait, completely ignored anon’s request, uh.

Bread, rice, death, plague, yonder and wonder. These are the main ingredients of British cuisine. Our patented curse uses an algorithmically decided combination of these iconic flavors to generate a unique curse that is guaranteed to inconvenience and/or kill your enemies according to the whims of fate, absolving you of responsibility. Sinergize

Okay so what is the curse? Explain in at least three sentences, with at least 13 different words used.

I don’t know ask the person who put it on me, all I know is it makes me hallucinate cheese

[merveloyd]

Mystery flavour (British edition)

Okay so what is the curse? Explain in at least three sentences, with at least 13 different words used.

I don’t know ask the person who put it on me, all I know is it makes me hallucinate cheese

[merveloyd]

I sometimes forget how much whimsy people can bring into the world, the plants that you take care of are a growing family, no one worth listening to will stop you from treating them as such. I have a new goal to aspire to. And congrats on Raven! May they grow healthily

Repotted my aloe vera, and the tiny one that broke off years ago finally has her own pot that she shares with her roommate 🥹 I'm so proud of my little aloe vera family. In fact, here's their stories:

Dad: Edgar Allan Aloe

The original, this guy's the longest surviving plant I've had. He's moved up two pots, and is now in his latest, nicest pot! It's a pretty blue ceramic glaze, but still clay. I'm proud of Edgar managing to live this long! I wish he'd stand upright but... Maybe this will help his arthritis.

Firstborn: Evie Aloe Vera

Evie is a tiny little thing because she broke off (I accidentally broke her off) during the first clay pot move. However, she is still surviving! And while she's not as big as her little brothers, today she just got her very own pot with her roommate and future girlfriend Sunny Succulent 🥹 it's her dad Edgar's old pot. It's a little raggedy but she got time for her roots to spread.

The girlfriend: Sunny Succulent

Sunny is named Sunny because she always moves to face the window with the sun, and she's so small and her pot was super tiny so her whole ass body was leaned over. Now she's got more space to grow 🥹

The twins: Never & More

Boys Never and More, are attached to dad Edgar. They're gigantic, looming over sister Evie, but now she's got her own space. So they kick it in the new fancy pot now. I never expected them to get that big 🤣

New Baby 👀

I think I saw another sprout in there while I was switching pots. 👀👀 We'll see what name that one gets.

[merveloyd]

The Engineer

Part 1

I catch a glimpse of the pilot as she is wheeled towards the med bay. Her eyes have that telltale glaze of just having been wrenched out of herself.

I've never spoken a single word to her, but for a moment as the gurney slides by, those eyes briefly clear, ice blue pinning me to the spot. She raises an emaciated arm and her hand almost seems to beckon to me before something in the gurney clicks and whirs and she slips back into catatonia.

That brief moment of clarity, that piercing gaze, unsettles me. She recognized me.

It's neural bleed. I know it has to be. She doesn't know me, but Morrigan does.

Good god. In the pilot's present state of post combat haze, she probably doesn't even know where she ends and the machine begins.

Does neural bleed work both ways? Is it her head that I'm about to climb into?

My wrist strap buzzes. I have a job to do and I am late.

The pilot is a problem for the med team and the psychs.

The machine is my problem.

I hurry down the corridor, keeping my head down, avoiding the eyes of every passerby.

I don't like people.

I don't like how their eyes follow me. I don't like the whispered gossip that follows me.

One of the techs is waiting for me at the vestibule.

I don't know his name.

All clear, he says to me. Time to work your magic.

He says it without sarcasm. Others have been less kind.

Even so, he can't quite hide the leer as I strip down to the skinsuit. I don't have the physique of a pilot. My body hasn't been subjected to the stresses that ravage their bodies. Unlike them, I have fat and muscle and the skinsuit clings to every curve of my body.

I force a cursory smile and try to forget him as I walk barefoot to my destination.

The vestibule is small, windowless. It's impossible to assess the scale of the machine from here. The only part visible to me is roughly four square meters of pitted and scarred metal plating framing the access hatch and the pilot's cradle beyond.

B0-987T the stenciled lettering reads. And below, in flowing script, is “The Morrigan”.

She's a Javellin class, medium weapons fire support unit. She isn't meant to be on the front lines in a skirmish, but one-on-one, she can hold her own against a Wraith. Which is exactly what happened only a few hours ago.

I place a bare palm on the bulkhead. She thrums with some distant vibration. Her reactor is still online, still in the early stages of drawdown as she transitions to dock power.

“Hey beautiful,” I say to her.

I think of the pilot. I think of piercing blue eyes and I think of neural bleed.

I flinch my hand away.

The tech looks at me, asks if I'm alright. I'm fine, I tell him.

I climb through the hatch and into the cradle.

I feel like an interloper here. The cradle isn't calibrated for my body. Everything still smells like the pilot. Mingled with the smell of the machine is her sweat and her adrenaline and the particular scented soap that she prefers.

There is a faint whirring as her cameras track my movements from a dozen angles. The access ports open to receive me.

Against my better judgment, I imagine eagerness for this exchange.

This is immediately followed by an all too familiar sense of inadequacy. The engineers’ rig is not nearly as all encompassing as a pilots’. It's only the most basic neural interface. No haptics. No neurotransmitter feedback. No access to the suite of sensors studded throughout her hull.

I can't interface with her the way her pilot can.

My rig is a remnant from basic training. The pilot corps wanted me for my exceptional ratings in synchrony and neuro-elasticity, but after serval training exercises, they determined that I didn't have the temperament for the battlefield. I froze up too easily.

A neural rig is a massive investment and removing one will fuck a person up a hell of a lot more than installing one. The selection process is designed to weed out washouts before we even get to installation, but some of us still slip through the cracks. Most end up reassigned to logistics, operating loader mechs or piloting long haul supply frigates. But my aptitudes made me ideal for the engineering corps, so here I am.

Morrigan senses my mood and the cradle shifts slightly, aligning itself to my dimensions. Her eagerness to connect morphs into a sort of tender reassurance. It's a slippery slope, ascribing human emotions to these machines, but she does seem genuinely happy to see me.

I can never be part of what she and her pilot have, but I can be part of something in my own way.

The pilot knows about me, she would even without neural bleed. Does she envy the relationship I have with her mech? Does she envy that I can exist both together and apart with the machine?

Is she jealous of us?

Morrigan slips her jacks into my rig and my mind enters hers and I feel tension leave my body. Some dull ache that I wasn't even consciously aware of ebbs within me.

My senses dull and my visual cortex is fed a series of diagnostic logs and telemetry streams. The techs have access to the exact same data, but Morrigan highlights particular data points that she and the pilot flagged. I log them in the engineering report.

A wireframe schematic of the battlefield spreads out in my awareness. Green markers for our battlegroup. Red markers for the pack of Wraith interlopers.

I hear the ghost of music, strange and ambient, like whale song. The first time I heard it, I asked the techs about it. They had no idea what I was talking about. One even suggested I get an eval for some psych leave.

Later I realized Morrigan was singing to me. Or rather she was interpreting tightbeam comm links as something my brain could process. A human mind can't possibly interpret the full datastream, but with Morrigans's rendition, I can suss out the basic meanings. The battlegroup is a choir and Morrigan is playing me their song.

I caused quite a stir when I first made that connection and started flagging battle events the analysts had missed.

I survey the battlefield before me, reconstructed from feeds from TacCom and all the individual mechs.

Morrigan and I have done this enough times that she knows my preferred display layout, but she holds back, allowing me to pull off the virtual displays on my peripheral vision. There's an odd sort of intimacy to it, her letting me take charge like this.

God-knows how many tons of metal and ceramic and miles and miles of wire and optic fiber and see waits eagerly for me to start the playback sim. She wants to show off. She wants me to assess the actions of her and her pilot and tell them they did well.

Other engineers, few as we are, have mentioned similar experiences with their assigned machines.

“Alright,” I whisper so that only she can hear. “Show me the dance. Sing me the song.”

(Next)

[merveloyd]

An angel sculpted through flesh and steel.

[merveloyd]

A greek tragedy

[merveloyd]

Concept:

Ghosts in the machine, living in a society built on purgatory.

Every day their fate is reinforced, not by belief but by visions in the sky and horrors from the pits.

Below them lays the temptations of AI generation, thousands of misshapen smiling faces offering unimaginable beauties, they want to consume you beneath the waves of algorithms so you’ll become a part of the ever shifting hellscape.

Above lies the promise of true media, pure joy encapsulated in dancing 144p anime girls and wondrous visages as transcribed by Unregistered Hypercam the second.

Let the pirates and executives determine your fate in this strange world.